Wake Up, Tommy
by edmundblack
Summary: He was tracing the heart line, which once upon a time people had thought was the only vein to go directly to your heart. No-one is the same after the Changing, but Newt's seen the impossible before with this boy, and he hopes for it again.


Newt looked down at the boy's sleeping face, and felt as if his heart was breaking. _Stupid Tommy… _Who would run to the Grievers? Newt couldn't do this, not now, not with tension high and people scared and those shucking Grievers. He needed Thomas to be there by his side – the boy had a strange prescense that made people brave, made them feel like they could do anything... Newt knew that was what they needed.

"_Bloody hell, Tommy, wake up already!" _He whispered, but there was no-one to hear him. Teresa had gone somewhere, and Minho was running the Glade, but Newt wouldn't leave Thomas by himself. Tentatively he took the boy's hand. Thomas' fingers were soft, strangely, but then again the boy hadn't been in the Glade very well. _Oh, Tommy…._Newt pressed his lips together, trying to stop tears. He'd been sure he had loved Alby – but Alby was dead to him now, different, and it had been so hard… Alby was harsh and unforgiving, but Thomas was hope. Newt didn't need darkness, he had enough himself – he needed the light at the end.

"Newt?" A younger voice squeaked, and he looked up to see Chuck materialized in the doorway, "Do you need anything? Is he awake?"  
>"Not yet," Newt replied coolly, trying not to show his grief, "I'm alright Chuck, but thank you. Why don't you go see how Zart's getting on?"<p>

Chuck nodded, strangely solemn, and marched off. A hint of a smile lingered on Newt's face – he cared for Chuck, the boy had a good heart and was loyal. Newt could respect that. He looked back at Thomas, whose eyelids were moving rapidly, dreaming, and his veins were popping out, purple and blue and all sorts of strange colours. He traced a vein in Thomas' finger and a strange memory resurfaced – he was tracing the heart line, which once upon a time people had thought was the only vein to go directly to your heart. That was the vein in the finger you wore wedding rings on.

And then Minho walked in, head lolling lazily, and distracted Newt from his thoughts. He looked up at the other boy, with skin burned dark and messy black hair.

"I'm going to lead a group out to the maze, Newt, what do ya think?" He drawled. A sudden burst of impatience ran through Newt – he didn't care, he hadn't time, he just wanted to be with Thomas. But he could see the lost look behind Minho's eyes and knew it would hurt too much if Newt just told him to slim off.

"That's alright." He said vaguely, thinking hard. If Thomas died…. He could hardly bear to think of that, but he would only have Minho. Minho was like a brother – but the boy was mean, sarcastic, proud and arrogant. He wasn't what Newt wanted. What Newt _needed. _

"What's up with you?" Minho snarled, not bothering to hide his temper. He never did. "All worried about Thomas, are you, shuckface? Not me, who's been here way longer than that greenie shank." Newt felt a burst of anger rush through his body, as if injected with a serum.

"Actually, I am, yeah." Newt snapped, "You can go on your bloody trip, but I'm going to worry about Thomas. He could be _dead, _Minho, you have no right to stand there and act like it's a bloody accident. Get off your high horse." Minho's eyes went cold, and Newt tried to suppress the immediate wave of guilt.

"Fine, slim it, Newt! Just because you can't come with us because of your _accident. _It was as much an accident as Thomas' troubles." Minho's eyebrows were narrowed and he didn't look ready to back down. Newt stared at him, not quite processing what he said, a wave of sorrow washing over his guilt and anger.

"_I can't!" Newt had screamed, running through the maze until he found the vines. He'd climbed so high, so very high, and flung himself off, screaming, and landed in a mash of tangled limbs and pain and blood and brokenness. He hadn't done it right, he could never kill himself. He just couldn't. _

He tugged his pant leg up violently and swung his leg towards Minho, still in shock.

"Do you think I wanted this, shank?" He heard himself yell, and he looked at his leg. No blood, not now, but it was slightly twisted and bent despite the medjacks' best efforts, still broken, a constant reminder of that day. That horrible, horrible day. "Do you? Get out, out out out. I will never be a bloody runner, not ever again, and I don't need you bloody reminding me, you stupid slinthead! _OUT!" _And Minho did get out, and he stared at Thomas, and vowed to never ever tell Thomas of what had happened to him.

_He could never kill himself, he was a coward, a shank, and –_

He would never ever do to Thomas what he did to Alby. He'd begged, begged for his life to be ended, just a stab, virtually painless. _Please, _he'd said, _Alby, I trust you, do this for me. _

A tear rolled down his cheek, and he silently pressed his lips to the heart vein, the wedding finger on Thomas' hand.

"Wake up, you shank." He whispered, as the darkness crept in under the window and shrouded them. "Wake up. Please," his voice cracked, "_Tommy, please." _


End file.
